Who's Been Sleeping in My Bed?

Breaking and entering had never been one of her sins.

Unfortunately, that was about to change.

Harlee Davis yanked on the bathroom window of the old farmhouse. It opened a few stingy inches then dug in its stubborn heels and refused to budge. She swiped at the water running down her face and muttered some choice words for the obstinate window. How could she have been so stupid as to lose the house key Rose had given her?

All around her, the rain fell in sheets and soaked every scrap of polyester and denim on her body. Her hair hung like a wet, tattered flag and plastered her face. Water dripped from her nose faster than from a leaky faucet. When she shifted her weight, her shoes squished. Harlee bit back a sob and shivered with misery. She considered returning to the relative protection of the covered porch, but that wouldn’t accomplish anything. This was not the time to surrender to self-pity.

With a strength born of desperation, Harlee grabbed the bottom of the window and heaved with all her might. The contrary thing shot upward. The momentum knocked Harlee from her precarious perch on a clay flowerpot into the spiny embrace of a large rhododendron.

“Oh, f…” Harlee stopped herself just in time. Rose hated it when she used the “F” word, in fact, hated it when she swore, so she’d better start watching her mouth now. “Fudge,” she corrected, pleased with the improvement.

Harlee freed herself from the rhodie’s clutches and rebalanced herself on the pot. She grasped the top of the window frame and swung both legs through the window then squirmed and squeezed her hips and boobs through the small opening. Her butt slid down the wall and wedged in the toilet. Obviously, a man had used it last, the seat was up.

Rose had a boyfriend?

Thank heavens, she was a small person, or she’d be stuck until the spring thaw. She could see the headlines now: “Body of Dumb Blonde Found in Bathroom after Fatal Toilet Plugging Accident.”

Harlee almost laughed. After all, her life had just been flushed down the toilet. Her body might as well follow.

Wrenching her butt from the toilet’s porcelain jaws, she hauled herself to her feet.

“Hello?” she called out then froze and listened.

No burglar alarm pierced the stormy night. Ravenous guard dogs didn’t emerge to drag her to their den. Nor did a dozen police cars screech into the driveway, with sirens blasting. So maybe she did have an overactive imagination, but this wasn’t something she did everyday or any day.

Harlee felt her way down the dark hall. She found the light switch and flipped it on. Nothing happened. Wonderful. No power. What else could go wrong on a night like this?

She sniffed. The place smelled musty, as if it’d been closed up for a while. Maybe Rose had gone south for the winter as she’d often threatened to do.

Fumbling her way to the front entrance, Harlee twisted the dead bolt and opened the door. She dragged her bag inside then made her way upstairs in the dark, tripping once over a chair that wasn’t where she remembered it. The second door on the right led to her old room. She located it with only a stubbed toe to show for her troubles.

It was late, and she held her hand over her mouth to stifle a yawn. Her three-day cross-country trek had sucked big time. A single girl didn’t dare sleep on a bus where the majority of the male passengers made her mother’s ex-boyfriends look good. A real bed safe from groping hands would be a most welcome sight.

A sudden flash of lightning illuminated that familiar old brass bed, still flanked by two nightstands. Discarding her wet clothes, she climbed into bed and burrowed under the large handmade quilt. Thunder crashed as loud as a bowling alley on league night. Lightning sliced through the pervasive darkness, painting sinister shadows on the ceiling and walls. Rain pounded against the window like an insistent door-to-door salesman. Wind combed through the cedar trees outside, causing a constant soft roar.

Harlee shivered. As Rose had been fond of saying, everything grew mold in the damp and gloomy Northwest winters, including a person’s soul. Oh my God, was that why so many serial killers originated from the Pacific Northwest?

The windows rattled and something banged. Were those shadows really shadows? Was that just the rain and wind making all that noise? Was there a reason Rose wasn’t home to greet her? All sorts of grisly scenes played through Harlee’s mind like old black-and-white horror films.

She yanked the blanket over her head and fought down her fears, labeling them as unreasonable. Rose wasn’t one to live by convention. Just because she wasn’t here to greet Harlee didn’t mean a thing. Tomorrow morning, she’d probably find a note explaining Rose’s absence.

Shutting her eyes, she willed herself to sleep. After what seemed like a lifetime, exhaustion claimed her. Her eyes grew heavy. The rain on the roof drowned out the creaks and groans of the old house, and she dozed off.

* * * *

It really was a dark and stormy night.

Jake Reynolds unlocked the back door of his craftsman-style farmhouse. The wind yanked the door out of his hand, and it crashed against the wall. At least it didn’t rip off its creaky hinges. Repairing a door in this storm didn’t appeal to him.

Wouldn’t you know it? A building contractor never took care of the repairs on his own place. Never time for it. It seemed to be one of those unwritten rules, like preacher’s kids are the wildest ones in school and shrinks have screwed-up lives. Yeah, take care of business before personal. That was the way this crazy world operated.

Jake rubbed the back of his neck and yawned. He’d driven like a possessed man to catch the last Washington State ferry bound for the San Juan Islands. Between staying too late in Seattle and the lousy traffic caused by this deluge, he’d boarded the ferry without a second to spare.

Ferry travel to the islands in November was never a predictable ride. Crossing Rosario Strait had been nasty. The storm had pitched and tossed the large vessel like a toy boat in a Jacuzzi tub. He’d never been a man prone to seasickness, but he’d come close tonight. Finally, the ferry plowed through Thatcher Pass into the relative safety of the San Juans. Just in time or he’d have tossed his hastily eaten McDonald’s cuisine.

After that harrowing experience, Jake longed to climb between the sheets and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. Funny, he never slept well in his Seattle apartment, but he sure slept well on Orcas Island, regardless of the weather.

He flipped the light switch. No power. Great. Wonderful. Leaving his bags inside the back door, Jake slogged through the mud to his pickup and returned with a flashlight and a cooler full of food. He set the cooler on the kitchen floor. It’d keep for the night. He’d unpack in the morning. Tonight, he had an appointment with a brass bed that he intended to keep.

Grabbing his valet bag, he trudged up the stairs. Damn, it was cold in this old house. The dampness sneaked through every crack and permeated the walls. It seeped under his skin and into his bones. First thing in the morning, he’d build a toasty fire. Then he’d watch football and do nothing for the rest of the day.

Yeah, right, Get real. He sighed. He couldn’t afford to do that. Not with work piled as high as Mount Rainier in his construction office over the three weeks he’d been gone. He hated that voice of responsibility. In his younger years, he’d been deaf to it. Now, the older he got, the louder it shouted.

Jake stripped to his Calvin Klein boxers—a gift from his mother who believed even underwear must sport a designer label. Turning off the flashlight, he laid it on the closest nightstand. He braced himself for the feel of the icy sheets on his bare body. But the sheets weren’t cold. They radiated warmth. His leg touched skin.

Jake froze.

Someone was in his bed, and he doubted it was Goldilocks.